


Fate Slew Him, but He Did Not Drop

by JustGettingBy



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: 5+1 Things, A little angst, All The Tropes, Bodyswap, Crack, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Crack, Forced Marriage, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, Lust Potion/Spell, M/M, Oral Sex, Satire, Sharing a Bed, Soulmates, Tropes, of sorts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:20:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22178431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustGettingBy/pseuds/JustGettingBy
Summary: The world is conspiring to get Geralt and Jaskier together. Geralt's not having any of it.ORThe five times Geralt refused to participate in the tropes and the one time he did.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 60
Kudos: 2788
Collections: Math





	Fate Slew Him, but He Did Not Drop

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from an Emily Dickinson poem. 
> 
> I told myself this was going to be a nice little one-shot. 1500 words. 2000, tops. lol.

**1**

Geralt was tired. There was no other way around it. He could never admit it--a tired Witcher was a bad look for his business--but his eyelids were heavy all the same. His muscles ached, his armour pressed uncomfortably at his neck, and a dull, ringing pain pulsed behind his temples. Geralt was reasonably sure the latter wasn’t Jaskier’s fault. Not this time, at least.

Roach whinnied. She was getting tired too. They’d been travelling for hours to the village, hours longer than he’d anticipated. Jaskier kept insisting the nearest village was ‘just around the bend’ of the mountain trails. 

The bard strummed his lute as he walked beside the horse. Did the man ever tire? He was like a child, all explosive energy and endless optimism. “Just around the crest of this hill, Geralt. I can feel it.”

“Hm.” The sun dipped lower in the sky and a fall chill rolled down the hills. As they turn around the bend, Geralt blinked in surprise. He supposed that Jaskier had to be right eventually--he’d guessed there would be a village at every bend in the road. 

The little village can’t be more than a few dozen buildings, all huddled together where the ground flattens out. Smoke pours from the chimney of the biggest building. Through a dirty window, a light flickered. 

“Oh praise the gods,” Jaskier sighed. “I was starting to think I’d be stuck on this trail forever. Like a ghost, you know? Haunting this path forever, warning new pilgrims on the road to turn around, save themselves from certain doom.”

“Bit dramatic.”

Jaskier scrunched up his face, feigning offence. “Me? Dramatic? Never.”  
  


They reached the tallest building in the tiny village (which is only two storeys). A wooden sign on the outside read _Croydon Inn._ The wooden beams that held the overhang of the rood sag the smallest bit and a greenish-grey moss clung to the foundations. It’s still better than nothing, Geralt decided. He tied Roach up outside, pulled the hood of his cloak over his hair, and followed behind Jaskier. 

A young woman looked up from the table she’d been wiping with a dirty rag. “Can I help you?”

“Two rooms, please,” Jaskier said. 

The woman set the rag down and adjusted her apron. “I’m sorry, sirs, but I only have one left.”

Jaskier shot Geralt a look and Geralt shrugged in reply. The two of them in a small room would be cramped, but they could split it down the middle and stick to their own sides. It’d be cheaper that way, too. “Alright,” Geralt said.

“I’m sorry,” the woman said. “I should clarify: there’s only the honeymoon suite left.”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._ Geralt turned and left the inn, his footsteps fell heavily on the creaking floor. 

Jaskier scrambled after him. “Geralt! Come on, it’s one night. I’m tired, you’re tired, we’re all tired.”

Geralt humphed. He untied Roach from the stable post and hung his bag on the saddle. “I’ll camp outside,” he said. 

* * *

**2**

Rain poured for three weeks straight before it let up. The spring day was lightly warm, but it still carried the taste of rain and drowned look. And the mud... it was _everywhere._ The roads turned to mud, the forest floor was mud. It clung to Geralt’s boots and dirted Roach’s legs and soiled his clothes. He wondered if he’d ever be free from mud. He doubted it. 

When the day warmed enough, he went down to the lake to wash. Jaskier followed. The bard had one of the lowest tolerances for grim that Geralt had ever seen. He wasn’t suited for travelling around like this, not really. 

Geralt stripped. He bundled his clothes on a log nearby and toed into the frigid water. 

Jaskier gawked at him.

In as long as he could remember, Geralt could never recall feeling so exposed. The bard had seen him naked before, what was the problem now? “What,” he said, his voice so low and sharp that he was nearly growling. 

Jaskier cleared his throat and brought his eyes upward until they met Geralt’s. “Did you ever hear the story about soulmarks?”

“Hm.” Of course, he’d heard the story--did Jaskier think Geralt lived under a rock?

“It’s said that when two souls are tied together by the stars, they’re born with matching marks. Symbols, if you will--a physical representation of their internal bond--so that they might find each other.”

“Hm.”

“ _Geralt,_ ” Jaskier said. He rolled his sleeve up past his elbow to reveal a dark, blotchy birthmark on his bicep. It was the shape of a crescent moon and no larger than a coin. “Geralt. We’re soulmates.” He pointed to Geralt’s own bicep. 

The small half-moon sat on Geralt’s skin, identical to the mark on Jaskier’s arm. Geralt reached over with his other hand and ran his finger around the soulmark. 

He swiped the mark off. “Mud,” he said. His skin stayed darker where it had been. He washed the dirt away in the lake. 

* * *

**3**

“Aye,” the merchant said. He held the metal circle up in the sun. “This sigil here is blessed by the gods. Some have called it cursed, but they know not what they speak of.”

Jaskier leaned forward, his eyes wide as he stared at the silver desk. “Well, that’s all well and good, but what does it do?”

Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. Really? Jaskier had complained for weeks about his lack of coin and supplies. Now they were finally at the market and he was distracted by some piece of junk. 

The merchant’s mouth quirked. His lips parted and showcased his crooked teeth. Was he smiling? “My dear boy,” he said, “it will show you the perspective of another. A blessing it gives you--the mind of the one you hold dearest. You simply must slip it under the pillow of the one whose eyes you wish to see out of and when you wake in the morning, well, you’ll see things _differently._ ”

Jaskier prodded the sigil with his finger. The merchant let him palm the treasure. “How much for it?” He reached for his coin purse. 

Geralt grabbed Jaskier by the shoulder and yanked him away from the stall. “Nope,” he said. 

“ _Geralt._ Come on.”

* * *

**4**

Geralt haggled with the mage. The man lowballed his offer--Manticore venom was worth eight marks, not five--but he knew that the venom would be spoiled by the time Geralt reached the next village. 

“Six marks,” the mage said. He sat in the chair next to his window and stared out, trying to appear disinterested. “That’s my final offer.” 

“Seven,” Geralt countered. “You’re not going to get another offer anytime soon.” 

Behind him, something shattered on the floor. “Oh shit,” Jaskier said softly. 

Geralt turned and saw Jaskier across the room, near the mage’s cauldron. The front of the bard’s shirt was soaked in something. He kicked a few shards of glass under the cabinet. “It’s fine,” he said, “it’s nothing.” Jaskier tugged at the collar of his shirt. “Is it getting hot in here, though? I feel flush..”

The mage jumped to his feet. “What did you spill, boy?”

Jaskier reddened. “Just a small vial. I can pay for it, if you need. Well, I can pay for it if you take instalments.”

“The red potion?”

Jaskier nodded. 

The mage cursed. “That was a potent lust potion, you idiot. Meant for the Count. He was going to pay a pretty penny for it.”

“Oh.” Jaskier awkwardly scratched the back of his head. “ _Oh._ Um, yeah. Yeah. I can tell.” 

“Best get to somewhere private,” the mage said, “and bring someone with you.”

“Fuck,” Geralt grumbled. He stalked forward and gripped the collar of the mage’s shirt, lifting the man onto his toes. “Antidote. Now.” 

“Why would I give it to you?” The man had powerful magic--he wasn’t intimidated by Geralt’s stunting. “You can’t even pay for the potion he already broke. I’m not a charity.”

Geralt sinks his fist in the man’s gut. 

The mage doubled over, coughing and spitting. “Top shelf,” he wheezed. “Second bottle from the right. Green colour.”

  
“Hm.” Geralt pushed across the room and reached for the shelf. A hand curled around his wrist. A light touch and a thumb that traced a circle over his bone. Geralt stilled.

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered. “Let’s get a room.” His eyes were dazed. Jaskier smelled sweet--like cedar and honey. His scent hung at the back of Geralt’s throat. 

Geralt swallowed. He reached for the top shelf, grabbed the potion, and unstoppered it. 

“Geralt,” Jaskier whispered again. He ran his hand up Geralt’s chest. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said. He reached for Jaskier’s face. “Open up.”

“What?”

Geralt reached forward, plugged Jaskier’s nose, and poured the sludgy green potion in the bard’s mouth. The bard gagged and wretched. Geralt clamped his hand over Jaskier’s mouth. “Swallow,” he ordered. 

“ _Grlt,_ ” he mumbled. But he does swallow. Geralt lets up. Jaskier shook his head. A green tinge clung around the bard’s face. “That was _disgusting._ Oh, gods, it tastes like vomit.” 

“Hm.” He watched Jaskier shift in discomfort. “Did it work?”

“Oh, gods.” Jaskier spat on the floorboards. “Yep. It worked. It really worked.” 

The mage stared at Geralt and Jaskier, a dark look brewing behind his pale eyes. 

Geralt set the manticore venom on the table. “We’ll call it even.”

  
  


* * *

**5**

When Geralt came to, all he could see only two things: faint moonlight drifted through the bars on the high window and Jaskier curled against the stone wall, his head down and resting on his hand. The bard was clocked in some strange white robe. 

Geralt shifted, but his movements were constricted. Heavy metal cuffs looped around his hands. Geralt sucked in a sour breath as he saw that he was wearing the same strange white robe. _What the fuck?_

“Jaskier?” 

“Geralt! Oh, thank the gods you’re finally awake.” As Jaskier lifted his head, Geralt could make out the bard was also shackled.

Geralt’s head ached. His ears rang and a throb radiated up from his spine. He felt as if he’d run headlong into a brick wall. “What happened?”

Jaskier made a hum of uncertainty. “Well, that’s a bit of a long story, you see.”

“Does it look like I’m going anywhere?”

“Well, uh, no. I suppose not. I guess we’ll start with the ghoul. Do you remember that?”

He does, vaguely. His head was too heavy to pull the pieces together, but he remembered an alderman and a terrified princess and a ghoul in a crypt of a castle. He remembered swinging his sword. He remembered driving the blade into the ghoul and the ghoul slamming him backward in return. He remembered the stone wall the moment before it met his face. “Fuck.”

“Well, uh, ‘fuck’ is right. I think. We’re in a bit of a mess here, old friend.”

“I killed the ghoul, didn’t I?"

“Uh, yes, you did. It’s good and dead, that old beast it.”

Geralt cocked his head. “I don’t see the problem.”

“Well, the king is very grateful, you see. And while you were out cold, he decided that you should marry his youngest daughter. His way of showing gratitude.”

A tightness constricted Geralt’s chest. “Fuck.” He can’t marry _anyone,_ let alone some young princess with no say in the matter. He remembered the look of terror on her face when he arrived--the shock and disgust that coloured her pale face. Geralt wasn’t honestly sure if it was directed at him or the ghoul. 

“Now, now, don’t despair! I’m not totally useless. I talked the king out of it, you see. All in a day’s work. And, you know, people love to hear me tell stories.”

If Jaskier talked the king out of his plan, why was Geralt still locked up? “Jaskier,” he said. “What did you tell them.” His voice is low and angry. 

Jaskier pales. “I, uh, I might have told them you couldn’t be married because you were already engaged to another.” 

That… that is actually not a bad story. Geralt considered it. As far as things went, it could have been worse. Much worse. Except for the fact that Geralt’s still chained to the wall. “Jaskier,” he said, “what aren’t you telling me.”

“Well, you see, the thing is I might’ve told them that the person you’re engaged to is _me._ ” Jaskier leaned back and avoided eye-contact with Geralt. “And the town of Norwich wants to throw us a traditional wedding, starting at first light. There also might’ve been a teeny-tiny little mixup, where they thought I was trying to drag you out of the infirmary and back to Roach. So they decided it was best if we stayed here for the night.” 

Geralt’s head hurt even more. “Jaskier,” he said. The _idiot._ “Did you say a traditional Norwichian wedding?”

“Err, yes, I’m afraid. Rituals and everything.”

_Fuck_. Geralt let his head sink back and sighed. Weddings in Norwich ended with the couple consummating the marriage in front of their guests. If it was a simple ceremony--a quick blessing was common throughout the continent--then Geralt might’ve considered it, just to get it over with. There’s no way he can go through with this. 

“I’m sorry Geralt,” Jaskier started, “for what it’s worth. I never meant for any of this to happen. I just wanted to fix things on my own for a change, you know?” The bard stared at the ceiling and kept droning on. “But such is life, I suppose. We can’t get what we want.”

Geralt shifted and his cuffs rattled. They didn’t seem that sturdy if he was being honest. Norwich had infamously shoddy workmanship--especially when tested against a Witcher’s strength. He strained and grunted and pulled. The cuffs snapped apart--a metal rivet clattered to the stone floor. 

“For once, I’d like to do something right,” Jaskier continued, unaware of Geralt’s action. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt said as he stood. He rubbed where the metal cuffs had dug into his skin. 

“I know, I know. I cocked it up.” Jaskier sighed deeply. “I’m sorry, Geralt. I really am.”

“ _Jaskier_.” 

Jaskier’s head snapped up. His eyes widened at the sight of Geralt standing there, free from the restraints. The anxiety that stirred behind his face eased. “Oh.”

Geralt reached down for Jaskier’s hand and hauled the bard to his feet. He kicked at the chain that held Jaksier to the wall and brought his heel down on the joint where the metal met the stone. It crumbled free. “Let’s go,” he grumbled and ran shoulder first into the door. 

* * *

**+1**

Geralt was _pissed._ In his head, the blood thundered. A nagging, pulsing, beat. His vision blurred around the edges. He locked his jaw. His nostrils flared as he breathed heavily. He raised his sword and pressed the point into the throat of the bandit who’d been keeping watch. “I’ll ask you once more,” Geralt spat. “Where is Jaskier?”

The man--if he can even be called that, with his round youthful face and baby fat--held his hands up, turned away from Geralt, and scrunched his eyes closed. “I--I don’t know,” he whimpered. “They don’t tell me these things--I’m not important enough to know.”

“Hm.” Geralt shoved the man back and spun his sword. He brought the heavy metal hilt down on top of the man’s head. The man raised his hand in confusion before slumping over on the forest floor. “In the future, make better choices.” 

Geralt kept his sword drawn and stalked through the woods. Through the trees, he could make out the glow of a campfire and thundering, drunken laughter. Even from a distance, the whole site reeked of cheap booze. He slashed the trees and roots with his sword as he made his way forward. 

When he reached the edge of their campsite, none of the bandits saw him. They continued joking and drinking by the fire. One grubby man pulled the meat off a chicken bone and licked his fingers before tossing the waste in the flames. 

Geralt cleared his throat. “I heard you were looking for me?”

The calmness over the campsite shattered. Some of the men jumped to their feet. Others stayed seated with dumb looks etched on their faces. 

“It’s him!” A stocky man pointed at Geralt. 

“The White Wolf,” another cried. 

The stocky man fumbled for the dagger on his side and charged forward. Geralt parried the small blade with ease and skewered the man. The bandit fell to his knees, clutching at his stomach. 

Another man from the crowd of bandits ran up with a mace in his hand. Geralt dodged his first swing--it was easy to sidestep a clumsy movement. He makes short of the bandit and the weight of the man collapses at his feet. 

“Anyone else care to try me?” It was impulsive, he knew. He didn’t care. 

They scattered. Some took off deeper into the woods. Others clamoured over their belongings and scrambled back toward the main road. By the fire, one man tried to sprint away but tangled himself over his own feet. He hit the dirt and didn’t even groan. He moved as if he were stuck in liquid. 

Geralt yanked the man up by his hair. His eyes were distant and unfocused. A ruddy blush covered his cheeks and nose. “Where is he,” Geralt demanded. 

“I don’t--” the man thumbed his nose-- “I dunno who you mean.”

Geralt tightened his grip and drove his knee into the man’s groin. A dirty move, but he didn’t care. He wasn’t a knight, in any case. And they played dirty first. 

Even in the man’s muddled state, he registered _that_. His hands flew down and he rolled on the dirt in agony. “You _fucker._ ” 

“The bard. Where. Is. He.”

The man didn’t answer, he kept rolling and groaning and letting free a string of expletives. 

Geralt wretched the man’s neck upward and held the edge to his Adam’s apple. “The. Bard.”

Finally, the man points to a tent on the other side of the clearing with a shaking hand. 

Geralt slammed his boot into the man’s groin for good measure before he took off across the clearing. 

He reached the largest tent--the one that probably belonged to their ringleader--and pushed the canvas aside. In the corner of the tent, bound and gagged and bleeding, is Jaskier. The bard didn’t look at the entrance. No, he was trying to push himself into the corner and make himself as small as possible. Invisible. _Fuck._

“Jaskier.”

He turned to Geralt. His eyes were red and watery. On the side of his temple, his skin is split. Deep bruises speckle his skin. 

Geralt ran over and dropped to his knees. He cut the rope away from his bound hands and untied the gag around his mouth. “You’re alive,” he whispered.

Jaskier collapsed forward and buried himself in Geralt’s arms. “You came.”

“Of course I did.” Geralt reached forward and put his fingers on Jaskier’s chin, tilting the bard’s head upward. “Are you alright?” 

“Yeah, yeah,” he said, but his voice shook. “A bit banged and bruised, but nothing I won’t get over.” 

Geralt’s heart burned. _Those fuckers._ The flames raged between his ribs, boil up his throat, razed down into the palms of his hands and soles of his feet. 

“ _Geralt._ I’ll be alright. Really.” Jaskier stood, his legs shaking like a baby deer. “The noise of the fighting outside scared me more than anything.”

“Hm.” Geralt looped Jaskier’s arm over his shoulder. “Roach isn’t far ahead. We can ride to my campsite. At first light, I’ll take you somewhere better to rest.”

“Thank you,” Jaskier said. 

They fell into an easy pace together as they hobbled through the woods. When they reached Roach, Geralt all but lifted Jaskier on the horse. 

Jaskier leaned forward and clutched Roach’s mane to steady himself. “I didn’t tell them anything, Geralt. I swear, I’d never sell you out. I hope you know that”

Geralt stopped. Jaskier had taken a horrific beating and _that_ was what he was most concerned about? The bard was going to be the death of him. 

When they reached Geralt’s campsite, Jaskier was rolling in and out of sleep. Geralt laid him on the bedroll.

“We need to get you cleaned up,” he said, “before infection sets in.”

It was Jaskier’s turn to ‘hm’. The bard only nodded his head lightly with his words. 

Geralt starts with a cloth. He emptied half his water-skin on the fabric and wiped Jaskier’s forehead. The grim and dirt and blood come off and reveal his clammy skin. 

Next, Geralt works off Jaskier’s jacket. He roots through his bag and finds the past, the good stuff with the bitter scent he paid too much for, and dabbed it on the welts that speckled Jaskier’s arm. It should numb the pain, but it won’t help the disappear any faster. Geralt wasn’t even sure anymore how long it took for a human to recover from something like this. For him, it would be a day. For Jaskier? At least a week, if not more. 

As Geralt rinsed out the rope burns on Jaskier’s wrists and wrapped them in bandages, he realized it might be even longer. 

***

The next morning, Geralt woke to the first light streaming through the canvas of his tent. In the distance, the birds called. Next to him, Jaskier still slumbered away. The bard’s chest rose up and down as he breathed deeply. He looked better than he did the night before, certainly. Colour returned to his cheeks. 

Geralt laced his fingers together behind his head. How had things gone so sideways? He’d been apart from the bard for what, two months? Maybe three? It wasn’t fair that Jaskier got hurt, not him. Just _knowing_ him had pulled Jaskier into a mess that could’ve cost him his life.

“Geralt?”

He turned. Jaskier’s eyes were open, blue and clear and wide. 

“You’re up,” Geralt said. “I think we should eat and then get moving--if you’re feeling up to it. You can rest off the rest of this in an inn. Take a bath.” 

Jaskier nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “For everything. For coming for me. For, uh, fixing me up.”

Geralt felt a heat rise under his skin. “It’s no problem.” He started to turn, started to go outside and gather wood for a fire, when he stopped. _Fuck it all._ “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jaskier.”

“Oh, uh, that’s new.”

In the woods on a quiet morning like this, Geralt can hear everything, including Jaskier’s heartbeat. Which just quickened. Did he doubt him?

“It’s the truth,” Geralt said defensively. 

“It’s still new to me. I mean, after all those times you pushed me away, what was I supposed to think?”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“Everything!” Jaskier waved his arms and let them fall to his sides. “The bed. The soulmark. The body-swapping sigil. The lust potion. The marriage. Everything.” On his last word, Jaskier stretched out every syllable. “You kept rejecting me.”

_Oh._ “Oh.”

“Yeah. So pardon me if this takes a bit to wrap my head around.”

Geralt moved closer to Jaskier and stared in the bard’s eyes. He could get lost in those pools of blue and he wouldn’t mind. “I wasn’t rejecting _you_. Jaskier, I could never.” He wrapped his hands around the bard’s and held it close to his chest. The bard’s fingers are calloused--worked ridges from his lute. “I don’t like being told what to do.”

“Hmm, that much is true.” Jaskier leaned in, closer to Geralt. His eyelashes floated as he blinked. His skin was a slight shade warmer than usual and flecked with freckles and sun. “But did you really never suspect anything?”

  
“No,” Geralt said. “Nothing that we weren’t pushed into.”

“Destiny is a meddlesome thing, isn’t it?”

“I thought you didn’t believe in destiny,” Geralt pointed out. 

“I don’t. It didn’t work, did it? We came together all on our own.”

Geralt cupped Jaskier’s jaw with his hand and traced his thumb over the bard’s lips. “I suppose we did.” 

The warmth of the bard’s lips sank into his thumb as Jaskier pulls it in his mouth and sucks lightly. The tingle fires through Geralt’s body, straight to his groin. 

“This is all us, Geralt,” Jaskier said, breathy. 

Geralt agreed it was better this way. He pulled Jaskier’s head closer and their lips found their way together. Like swimmers in the ocean, diving and resurfacing and floating. Geralt let himself rock on the waves. 

Jaskier’s hand started to drift lower when Geralt catches it.

“Not today,” he whispered. “You need to rest.” He guided Jaskier down on the bedroll until the bard lay on his back. Geralt ran his fingers through the laces of Jaskier’s breeches and worked his pants open. He pushed Jaskier’s shirt up and kissed his stomach, trailing his way down to the bard’s length.

Jaskier shuttered. He palmed a handful of Geralt’s hair. “Gods,” he breathed. 

Geralt took the man’s cock in his mouth. He’d been with men before, but not for many years. Still, he knew what he liked. He cupped his hand around Jaskier’s balls and thumbed them, gently. He runs his tongue over Jaskier’s tip. 

The pleasure dizzied Geralt. The world, with his enhanced sense, sometimes was all too much. Too big. Too many smells and noises and lights and colours. He narrowed it. Focused on one thing. Jaskier. _Jaskier. Jaskier. Jaskier._ His head bobs and he lets the bard’s scent wash over him--ointment and pleasure and _oh gods_ cedar and honey. 

“I’m not going to last,” Jaskier chocked out. 

“Then don’t.” 

Jaskier came a moment later. Geralt took it all in. Their scents mingle and mix together--he can’t tell where his ends and Jaskier’s begins. Geralt collapsed on the bedroll next to Jaskier. 

“I would say I owe you one,” Jaskier said, still panting. “But it’s your bloody fault we haven’t been doing this all along.”

“You need to get some rest. Get better” Geralt stroked Jaskier’s hair. “We have all the time in the world to make up for what we missed.”


End file.
